


Vicar of Baker Street

by Lymphadei



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Confessional, Confessional Sex, Johnlock Roulette, M/M, Religious Imagery & Symbolism, handjobs, priestlock, sort of
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-14
Updated: 2016-02-14
Packaged: 2018-05-20 07:24:58
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,293
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5996773
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lymphadei/pseuds/Lymphadei
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After a few tense minutes of silence, the man said, “Well?” </p>
<p>John startled as the vicar’s rich timbre filled the small room. “Oh!” John reached into his memory for the right words and hurriedly made the sign for the cross. “Um, bless me, er - Father, for I have sinned,” he stumbled through, wanting to bang his head on the ledge. </p>
<p>“Obviously,” the man snorted sotto voce, and John's head shot up to give the man another once over. That was surprisingly rude. Aren't vicars supposed to be patient and gentle, or something?</p>
            </blockquote>





	Vicar of Baker Street

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Crickette](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Crickette/gifts).



> So, this work was a prompt inspired by my friend Crickette and also a (late) birthday gift to her. She has been so awesome to me! Thanks, GST! Also a huge thanks to my wonderful betas [Superoreoman](http://superoreoman.tumblr.com) and kami-no-ikku for your awesome help on getting this fic out. You ladies are wonderful!

It had been years since John Watson stepped foot into a church, and even less since he prayed to a god that he wasn't entirely sure he believed in. He wasn't an atheist; he didn't entirely believe that there was nothing after death or that there was no higher power, but John could admit to being somewhat of a sceptic. 

In fact, John _wanted_ to believe, but it was easier said than done, which is why he found himself opening the heavy wooden doors of the church on a Saturday evening after work. He knew there wouldn't be much activity; the young devotees would be getting their kicks in on a Saturday night, and attending services early Sunday morning to pay penance for their bad deeds. 

There weren't many people milling about in the sanctuary; the room was empty, save for a few scattered souls looking just as lost as John. A woman knelt at the altar, hands clasped before her face, forehead nearly touching Jesus’ bloody feet. The vicar was nowhere to be seen. 

John stood near the back for a moment longer, unsure what to do next, but ready to slip out the door if need be. The place was large and appeared as if it hadn't seen a renovation since the eighteenth century. Besides the burning incense, the sanctuary smelled like polished wood and beeswax from the lit candles. 

Somewhere off in the halls, a door closed softly. John turned and slid into the last pew, smiling with nostalgia as he remembered being short enough to sit and kick his feet into the seat in front of him. Harry was always good in church, but John nearly always got a thorough tongue-lashing afterwards because he could never pay attention during Mass. Every once in a while, John could get his mum to crack a smile, but his father never so much as glanced at him until the vicar gave his final blessing. 

Not all of John's memories of church were good ones. The ladies were always gossips and the sacrificial images of Jesus were a bit much for a child. John could remember being scared of the life-size rendition of Jesus on the cross, a gruesome display above the altar that had him hiding behind his mum’s legs on every occasion that merited a closer proximity.

The quiet sanctity of the sanctuary was abruptly interrupted as a man burst through a door situated in a little alcove in the back of the room, swearing profusely in increasingly elaborate combinations. A few heads raised to watch the man leave, while one elderly woman, in particular, clutched her cane as he walked by, scowling as if she had half a mind to throw it at him. 

The man shoved through the heavy door on John's left and exited the church with a flurry of fabric. Then, John turned to his right, where the man had just emerged from. The confessional. It appeared just as intimidating as it had when John was younger. This one was built into the wall, and the doors had no gaps under them, so the space inside would be completely enclosed. The windows were covered with red curtains and prevented John from seeing the vicar, who hadn't yet left the confessional. 

Well, John thought, it was as good a time as any to confess his sins. After all, John did come to church for no other reason than to see if his faith in a deity could be renewed.

Admittedly a bit nervous, John stood and limped his way through the pews until he was standing just outside of the doors. His hands clenched and unclenched at his sides; a nervous habit John had never been able to shuck, but it wasn't as if anyone was looking. He peered around once more and found the scenery to be just the same as when he’d first entered. One man reading the Bible glanced at him then dismissed him instantly, returning to his reading. 

_Here goes._

The vicar stayed silent as John stepped into the small space. It was confining and John thought that one need only step into a confessional to realize that it was a bad idea. There's a kneeler, a small ledge for John to place his elbows on, and a screen that didn't do much to shield his identity. John had never understood the point of confessing his sins to a person, a man just like him. Why couldn't he just pray to God? At least then, he knew there wouldn't be someone silently judging him on the other side. Well, not plainly, at least. 

John knelt on groaning knees, thinking that he was getting too old for this, and clasped his hands on the ledge. He could see the man’s profile through the screen; the pale skin and dark hair, blue eyes. The vicar was looking at him. Was he supposed to say something, or did John go first?

After a few tense minutes of silence, the man said, “Well?” 

John startled as the vicar’s rich timbre filled the small room. “Oh!” John reached into his memory for the right words and hurriedly made the sign for the cross. “Um, bless me, er - Father, for I have sinned,” he stumbled through, wanting to bang his head on the ledge. 

“Obviously,” the man snorted sotto voce, and John's head shot up to give the man another once over. That was surprisingly rude. Aren't vicars supposed to be patient and gentle, or something? But the man had turned and was no longer looking at him. All John could see was the shrouded black of the man’s cassock and his long pale neck as he leaned his head back against the wall. 

John cleared his throat and turned his eyes back down to his clasped hands, unsure what else to do with them. “It's… been years since I've last confessed.”

“Yes, I imagine you've a lot to repent for,” the vicar deadpanned, and John's back straightened, because this is definitely not how he imagined a vicar to be talking. 

“I'm sorry, _what_?”

The man rolled his head to the side until John could see those blue eyes completely fixated on him, unimpressed and entirely uninterested. “I said, obviously you've a lot to repent for, which is probably going to be as dull and repetitive as all the others I've heard today so let's speed things up, shall we?” Then, the man turned fully to the screen and leaned forward until his nose was nearly pressed against it, his eyes roving restlessly over John in a way that should have been wildly inappropriate, but surprisingly sparked only mild annoyance… And maybe just a splash of attraction, because the vicar was actually a very good-looking man. 

“You've only just returned to London, recently discharged from the army, oh, about a month ago. Somewhere where the weather is consistently warm and high power rifles are not only handled, but entirely necessary, so active service, not reserve. There are currently two places that fit this description in which the British military is currently deployed: Afghanistan and Iraq. Which one is it?"

John had all but abandoned his reverential position for something more defensive, because was he in a confessional or a bloody psychic booth?

John shook his head in awe, because there was no way this man - this _vicar_ \- could know so much about him when they’d never once met before. “Yes, this isn't creepy at all,” he muttered, then said louder, “how do you know all that?”

The man responded nonchalantly, but John could see how his back straightened immediately and his voice grew steady and confident. “You still have tan lines that haven't yet faded, which you can clearly see whenever your sleeves pull back. The sun is a rare commodity in London; we don't get nearly enough of it to warrant a tan, and I don't take you for a man who wastes hours in a tanning bed. No sunburn, so it would be a location where the sun is a consistent factor, and your body would have had time to become accustomed to it. Your index and middle finger,” the vicar pointed to John's hands where they were still folded on the ledge, “are calloused from where you've pulled a trigger regularly and handled the trigger guard, respectively.”

Actually, John couldn't even be upset because it was all pretty logical, but still... “Amazing…”

The vicar hummed in surprise, his curly head slightly canting to the left. “Really, you think so?”

“Oddly, yes,” John replied, completely aware of how unusual a situation he’d found himself in, and yet, he didn't want it to end yet. “Can you do that with everyone?”

“Mostly,” the vicar said immediately, “though most don’t appreciate the skill. The words ‘Piss off’ will forever be ingrained in my memory, with the number of times I'm told so often.”

“Can't imagine why,” John commented blandly, and the man sighed. 

“Yes, well,” said the vicar, before tapering off into a brief silence. “So, which is it?”

John thought for a moment, but couldn't, for the life of him, remember what the man was asking about. “What?”

The vicar sighed and threw his hands up exasperatedly. “Oh, for the love of- Afghanistan or Iraq, you idiot?”

Oh. “Oh.”

“I sincerely hope you've come to ask forgiveness for your stupidity, because I am literally astounded by the number of vacuous people currently occupying London. Pray. Pray and ask for a brain that works. And do five Hail Mary’s or what have you. Whatever makes you sleep better at night.”

“I'm sorry, who even are you,” John asked incredulously, when he could no longer fathom that the man on the other side of the screen could possibly be a vicar. 

“I’m Father-”

“No, you're _not_ ,” John cut in, leaning back to sit on his heels and cross his arms over his chest sternly.

“Well I'm not _now_ ,” the man hissed under his breath, more to himself than to John. “Keep your voice down,” he whispered urgently. 

The man turned away for a moment, listening, John observed. When nothing happened, he turned back to John and leaned closer to the screen until he was nearly face to face with John. His long-fingered hands pressed palm up against the screen.

“My name is Sherlock Holmes, consulting detective. Yes, the only one in the world, no, I don't work for the police, and yes, I am here on an investigation.”

Well, there went John's “nothing ever happens to me” line he had planned to post on his blog for his therapist to see. The man - Sherlock - was watching him through the screen, and John only just realized how close he’d drawn in order to hear him speak, and was reminded of how handsome he’d thought the man to be before he opened his mouth. 

“Is someone in trouble,” John enquired. He didn't have his Browning at hand, but he still remembered a few basic lessons in combat. 

Sherlock smirked, and John’s eyes drifted unwittingly to the perfectly shaped bow of the man’s lips. “The vicar who is ordinarily here. It's most certainly one of the clergymen that have been sending coded death threats, though the vicar certainly isn't without fault. Classic case of a man abusing his power, but I won't go into details. I've said enough. Your turn, now. Afghanistan or Iraq?

“Afghanistan,” John answered immediately this time, intrigued despite himself. He wanted to know more about this ‘consulting detective’, but his knees were starting to ache. 

“For a man with a bum leg, you’ve certainly sat on it for long enough without much trouble,” Sherlock commented drily, but the way his eyes moved over John was anything but disinterested. He tilted his head. “You're easily the most interesting thing to walk through that door today.”

Wait. Was the man _flirting_ with John now? John had never met someone who could change gears so quickly and be quite so contrary. “Being on my knees is not ordinarily a problem, as long as it's not for too long.” Besides, it wasn't his knees that often gave John trouble; it was the leg and the godforsaken limp that wouldn't go away even though there was nothing physically wrong with it. The only injury was his shoulder, which also happened to be why he wasn't in Afghanistan now, but instead, kneeling in a confessional, flirting with a strange man who worked with and not for the police, and dressed up like a vicar while doing so. Nothing ever happens, indeed.

“I wouldn't think so,” Sherlock said, his voice lower by an entire register, and John blushed because he’d just realized how his last statement could be misconstrued as an innuendo. “After all, I've heard stories of what you army fellows can get up to when bored.”

John felt his eyebrows nearly touch his hairline. Sherlock, for all that he was dressed like a holy man, was no longer talking like one. Well, he hadn't been to begin with, but honestly, had he no shame?

John chuckled incredulously, and the man’s eyes narrowed. “Um, yeah, well I did come to confess my sins.”

Sherlock's 's face went blank in thought before he leaned back into his seat, with a new gleam in his eyes that made John wary. “By all means, then. Continue.” Sherlock waved his hand in a gesture that John was meant to take as a go ahead to confess his sins to a man that wasn't even ordained to do this sort of thing. Then again, maybe this was divine intervention, because God knows that if John's little trip to the church didn't work, then he’d be having another silent conversation with his gun that night. 

So John played along and returned to his previous position on his knees, elbows on the ledge and hands clasped. He could feel Sherlock's eyes on him.

“Bless me, Father, for I have sinned,” John began, and this time, Sherlock didn't interrupt. “It’s been ten years since my last confession.” John paused and something heady and expectant grew in the silence between them. Sherlock's attention was a tangible presence, like feather-light caresses on his skin. What was John about to do, and in a church, no less, with a total stranger. Oddly enough, it spurred him on. 

“I had sex with a man in the army,” John said, so softly he might as well have been whispering. “Men…”

Sherlock hummed in understanding and enquired, “How many?”

John swallowed. “Several. Four, at least.”

John chanced a glance and saw that Sherlock was leaning towards the screen, his entire body invested towards John's confession. “Your name; care to share,” he asked, and the last word dragged out on a low breath that John would say anything just to hear again. 

“John, Doctor John Watson. Just John, really,” John rambled embarrassingly. Honestly, he was a middle-aged man; things like this didn't happen to him often. _This_. This was a bloody wank fantasy playing out.

Sherlock raised a brow, but didn't comment on John's obvious nervousness. “Ah, an _army doctor_. Aren't you quite the contrary little man. Hm, just John, then,” he said. “John, I'm afraid you'll have to be more specific in order for me to gain clarity.”

John didn't say anything for a several long seconds, but instead, focused on evening out his breathing. Finally, he was calm enough to speak. “What do you want to know?”

Sherlock shifted on the other side of the screen, his eyes flicking from John's eyes, to his lips, and dragged back up, unhurriedly. “What kind of things did you do with these men, John?”

John shifted on his knees. The kneeler wasn't exactly meant for long sessions, and John was beginning to feel it. Also, his burgeoning erection was beginning to press uncomfortably against his pants. He cleared his throat and elaborated.

“I sucked them and let them suck me,” John breathed, aware that even though they were in an enclosed part of the sanctuary, anyone could be standing just outside. Sherlock didn't seem to care, but his voice stayed a careful undertone.

“And did you enjoy it?”

“Yes.”

Sherlock went quiet for a moment, but John could see him hang his head through the screen. Then, his head tilted up as though he were looking towards the heavens, and something in John lurched at the curve of Sherlock's long throat. “Do you think about it often?”

John tore his eyes away and back down to his clasped hands, growing hot under his collar. “All the time,” he answered softly.

Sherlock reached for his collar and pulled it away from his skin. His jaw tensed. When he looked back at John, his blue eyes were sharper than before. “Continue.”

“I liked having them inside me,” John said shakily. He’d never said as much aloud, but most men in the army didn't like to talk before sex. Most that John found himself with were too prideful to bottom for John. Those were the men that closed their eyes and dreamed of being with women while fucking a man. Often, they had wives and girlfriends back home. “I liked being inside them, too.”

A tremulous breath from the other side of the screen, then, “Did you?”

“Yes.”

“And now that you're back in London, do you still desire other men?”

John nodded, sure that Sherlock was still looking at him. “I'm not ashamed.”

Sherlock snorted, although his words weren't mocking when he spoke. “Why should you be?”

John chuckled and looked up at the strange man on the other side of the screen. “You _do_ know we’re in a church, and what their thoughts on homosexual relations are?” he said, shaking his head in wonder. Well, that was only partially true. Since John's younger days, some churches had changed their views, but he’d be hard pressed to find many that were openly accepting of the LGBT community. For his part, Sherlock didn't seem to care about the technicalities one way or another. 

Sherlock waved a hand dismissively, as if he were batting away a fly. “Yes, extremely ridiculous.”

John snickered. “Don't let them hear you say that.”

“What are they going to do? Stab me with their candle snuffers?”

John giggled and Sherlock joined in, chuckling lightly on the other side of the screen. “Stop it,” John admonished. “We can't giggle. We’re in a confessional!”

“Ugh, _boring_ ,” Sherlock complained, sobering quickly at the reminder. “Though, I do appreciate where this was going. Please, don't stop on my account.”

John hadn't expected for Sherlock to want to continue, but the man seemed just as curious about how this odd scene would play out. He wondered how much of it all was affecting Sherlock and whether his cock was pushing against his cassock. It was a vulgar thought, one that John should have been ashamed by, but instead, he found himself wanting to see with his own eyes. 

“I haven't been with a man since I've returned to London,” John confessed.

“Do you miss it,” asked Sherlock. The question was soft and intimate in the confined space, as if John's answer would tip the scale of their interaction into something more, something dangerous. John had never been one to shy away from a little danger, though. 

John looked up to meet Sherlock's clear blue eyes, staring down at him with a swirling amalgam of emotions ranging from predatory to impressed. A challenge; that was what Sherlock wanted. 

“God, yes,” John sighed, his fingers itching to relieve the pressure in his denims. 

Sherlock smiled, but it wasn't humorous and served only to inspire goose pimples along the length of John's arms. “I'll thank you not take the Lord's name in vain, John,” Sherlock rumbled disarmingly. Suddenly, the atmosphere in the room dropped another depth and John knew that whatever was meant to happen would take place in the next moment. Sherlock didn't disappoint. “I can't imagine that anyone who has seen you on your knees in this manner would allow you to leave them,” he commented.

“It wasn't me they wanted. They weren't gay, they would say,” John replied, his clasped fingers pressing into the skin on the back of his hands. “I was just a warm body for them to use.”

“Ah,” said Sherlock. “Then you wouldn't mind showing me how you seduced these ‘straight’ men into your bed?”

John froze, blinking a few times before he looked up with a bemused frown. “What do you mean?”

“Show me,” Sherlock ran a finger over his bottom lip idly, the other arm crossed over his chest as he watched John patiently. “Show me what you did to get these men to sleep with you. You say you gave them fellatio; use your finger. I want to see. I need all the data in order to assign you proper penance.”

Christ, the man wasn't kidding, John noted, as Sherlock continued to watch him in expectation. His blue eyes pierced right through the screen as if it didn't exist at all. John wondered at the intensity of that stare without the barrier between them. Fine. John wasn't afraid. In fact, John didn't think he’d ever been so turned on in his life. He should feel like the worst piece of shite about to engage in foreplay in a church confessional, but his heart was pumping in thrill. John would see this through until the end. 

John reached for the buttons on his shirt, but Sherlock’s sharp, “Tell me,” stilled his fingers. “Tell me what you're doing.”

John took a deep breath. No, he wasn't having performance anxiety, it's just that no one had ever watched him with such intensity. Sherlock's entire presence was unreal and larger-than-life. He closed his eyes briefly, and when they opened, it was just the two of them in the camp, surrounded by empty beds, perfectly made. Sherlock was not in a cassock here. John imagined the man to be tall and lean in his fatigues. John was wearing the same. 

“We’d be back in the tent, when it happens,” John began, his breath hitching at the memory, except it wasn't his Major he was kneeling in front of, but Sherlock Holmes. “And I’d ask if he wanted me to take my kit off, because some of the guys didn't like to see me naked. They just wanted to shag and forget it ever happened. So I always liked to ask first.” John blinked and he was back in the confessional with Sherlock watching him with rapt attention. 

John flicked his eyes up to Sherlock. “But I really don't want to get arrested for indecency if someone were to walk in and see my naked arse, so you'll just have to use your imagination.”

Sherlock conceded with a nod, and gestured for John to proceed. 

Again, the room faded away to the tent, where John was removing his shirt, pulling it over his head and letting it slide down his arms while Sherlock's eyes tracked down his chest. “Sometimes, they would want me to undress quickly, but others liked a strip tease, so I'd pull my shirt off slow for them.”

The Sherlock in fatigues paced an unhurried circled around John, observing him from every possible angle, and lingering on John's back and the nape of his neck where sweat just began to bubble over the skin. Suddenly, he spoke. “Did you touch yourself for them?”

They were in the confessional, and Sherlock was leaning close enough to the screen that his nose was nearly pressed against it. 

John nodded. “Yes, but not always,” he said. “Some wanted me to suck them first.”

In the tent, Sherlock had finally stopped before him, his hips canted forward towards John’s seeking fingers. Sherlock was beautiful, all sharp cheekbones and shapely, cornflower blue eyes that curved near the corners. In a cassock back in London, he was dark and lovely; in fatigues on a desert base in Afghanistan, Sherlock was devastating. 

Carefully, John placed a hand on Sherlock's zip. 

“Sometimes, all they wanted was a blowjob, so I would do it back in the tent, when everyone was in the mess hall or out on patrol, that way no one would walk in.”

John pulled Sherlock's zip down, watching as Sherlock's head tipped back, and Sherlock-the-vicar did the same, briefly. “I would unzip their trousers and expose them, and by then, I'd be hard in my trousers, too.”

“Show me,” Sherlock demanded, utterly unbothered save for the enlarged pupils and the way he seemed to settle back in his seat. John could imagine his thighs parting to sit comfortably with his erection. 

Slowly, John brought his forefinger to his lips and let it rest there for a moment, just to tease, the way he would a hard cock. 

The sound of wood scraping against wood was the only warning John received before Sherlock was down to his level, on his knees with one hand pressed to the screen and the other out of sight. “Yes, do it,” Sherlock breathed, his pale eyes riveted to John's fingers, lips parted.

John allowed his tongue to slip out and touched it to the tip of his finger. When he closed his eyes, Sherlock was standing over him in the tent, hissing as John's tongue ran over his glans in devotion. John made sure to keep his eyes on the man above him. He’d learned to take cues from the smallest of twitches, and it always made the intercourse so much sweeter when John could give his lovers exactly what they wanted without saying a word. 

Sherlock's harsh breaths snapped John out of his fantasy, and John opened his eyes to see the man watching him as he fellated his own finger, swirling his tongue around the length of it before closing his mouth around it. 

Sherlock's shoulder was moving in such a way that John was sure he knew where that large hand was currently occupied. He longed to have Sherlock's hands around his throbbing prick, church or no. 

Sherlock's voice had dropped several octaves when he deigned to speak, his words emerging from the back of his throat. “Touch yourself, John,” he ordered, “where I can see you. Don't stop talking.”

John smirked, “Well I can't both talk and suck a cock, Sherlock.”

“Sod the bloody fantasy, John. You know what I want,” Sherlock hissed, his breath catching between proclamations. “I'm not a bloody vicar, and there's nothing holy about what I want.”

John let his wet finger hover over his lips before dropping his hand to unzip his denims. “All right,” he conceded. Sherlock just gave him a long, hungry look, before his eyes dipped down to watch John's hand as it reached into his pants and released his cock. 

“One man in particular only wanted us to bring each other off by hand. It’s not as gratifying as oral or penetration, but we were pressed for time, and I hadn't fucked in months,” John recounted. “We often didn't have the luxury of lube, so if we had to use our spit, then needs must.” John kept his eyes locked with Sherlock's as he brought his hand up to face level and laved along line of saliva up his palm and fingers. Sherlock made a quiet nose that could have been a whimper, as John grabbed hold of his erection, sighing at the first touch. 

Sherlock's arm was moving out of sight. 

“I want to see,” John whispered, and Sherlock paused, leaning his head against the screen. When he stood with one hand to support himself on the screen, John could see that the cassock had been parted and his trousers, unbuttoned. One large hand stroked leisurely at his hardened member. 

John gripped himself in earnest, his eyes on Sherlock's moving hand and Sherlock's gaze on his. “What's my penance, then,” John panted, all other words failing him. His hand was moving faster now, and Sherlock was matching him in pace, his beautiful eyes narrowed to pained slits, lips parted to release avid breaths. 

Sherlock growled softly to himself, his thumb climbing to the tip of his cock to fondle the slit where pre-come was just beginning to pearl. He smiled through open-mouthed pants and said, “My flat, 221B Baker Street. Tonight. I can think of a few things, namely how many times I can make you come trembling around me.” The last bit was spoken around a gasp, before Sherlock was leaning heavily against the screen, his hand wringing stripes of semen from his swollen cock. 

John was close enough to the screen that a few stray drops bounced through the gaps in the screen and landed against his cheek. John's orgasm happened upon him quicker than he expected, and so intensely that he couldn't move a muscle while his cock spasmed over and over. Warmth rushed through him like a pleasant tingle that faded away in his extremities, until John could finally move again. When he was able to focus again, John's hand was dripping and there was a puddle of semen on the wood beneath his knees. 

It was official: John was going straight to hell. 

_Christ._

When he looked up, Sherlock was just raising his forehead from his forearm and reaching to pull his trousers closed. “I assume this was satisfactory for you?”

John chuckled, shaking his head. Fortunately, he had a button up beneath his cardigan. Damn. It was also his favourite cardigan, but John couldn't very well walk out of the confessional with semen on his hands. 

Sighing, John stripped off his cardigan and used to wipe his hands off. “Well, it _was_ my turn this week. Last week, you made me wear lacy knickers all day and serve you tea.”

“Yes, well, I had to pull a few strings for this favour. You'll be doing that for the next two weeks, so I do hope you didn't throw them out.” Sherlock was back to looking immaculate in his vicar uniform, save for the blush still high on his cheeks. “Your request was, and I'm paraphrasing, “Do you remember that case you solved the first month I moved into Baker Street, about the murdering clergyman? Can we do that one?””

“Oh, shut it, Sherlock, we weren't even shagging, then!”

“Yes, but don't think I didn't know you locked yourself in your room for a wank after seeing my disguise,” Sherlock smirked smugly, straightening his collar. “I was quite flattered, actually.”

John smiled fondly at his partner and stood, taking it slow because he’d been kneeling for quite a while. “What kind of favour could the vicar possibly owe you to allow you to enact a fantasy in his confessional?”

Sherlock shrugged, smoothing a hand down the front of his cassock. “I _did_ save his life, John. And the vicar has his fair share of secrets, including that he has at least one rendezvous a week with one of the church staff.”

John shook his head and clucked this tongue at the man on opposite side of the screen. “You shameless man,” he teased. 

“I'm sorry, whose idea was all this?” Sherlock rolled his eyes, though they were gleaming with glee when they connected with John's reverent stare. 

John crossed his arms and rocked back on his heels in self-satisfaction. “Don't act like you didn't get anything out of it. I know all about your military kink.”

Sherlock smiled softly. “That you do, my dear John. Now let's get home so we can negotiate your penance.”

John giggled and turned to the door, light as a feather. “Yes, Father Holmes,” he threw over his shoulder, and Sherlock scoffed loudly. 

“Please, John. Contain yourself.”

“Never.”

**Author's Note:**

> Feedback and constructive criticism is always encouraged! Thank you so much for reading and feel free to join me anytime on [tumblr](http://lymphadei.tumblr.com).


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